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YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRIZE  POEM 


1904 


YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRIZE  POEM 


1904 


OSTIA 


BY 


WILLIAM    SAVAGE   JOHNSON 


NEW     HAVEN 

THE  TUTTLE,  MOREHOUSE,  &  TAYLOR  Co. 
1904 


—^ 


PREFATORY    NOTE 

This  poem  received  the  seventh  award  of  the  prize 
offered  by  Professor  Albert  Stanburrough  Cook  to 
Yale  University  for  the  best  unpublished  verse, 
the  committee  of  award  consisting  of  Professor 
Thomas  D.  Goodell,  Rev.  Frederic  Palmer,  and 
Professor  C.  H.  A.  Wager. 


OSTIA 


In  Ostia  to-day  the  sun  looks  down 

On  moldering  forum  and  dismantled  wall, 

On  broken  colonnade  of  palace-hall 
That  once  swept  Tiber  with  majestic  frown. 
Where  lie  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  town, 

With  the  grey  lichen  creeping  over  all, 

Once  rang  from  waking  unto  evenfall 
The  shout  of  merchant  or  of  sailor  brown. 

Hovered  at  Tiber's  mouth  the  white-winged  fleet, 
Her  sails  afloat  to  swoop  on  sunny  Spain, 

And  homesped  galleys,  flecked  with  yellow  foam, 
Brought  Persia's  silk  and  Egypt's  golden  grain ; 
Mayhap  the  fair-haired  Angles  trod  her  street 

Whom  Gregory  pitied  in  the  mart  of  Rome. 


Now  o'er  her  battlements  the  night-winds  sigh, 
Upon  her  walls  the  red  sun  turns  to  grey, ' 
Woodbine  and  ivy  o'er  the  arches  stray, 

And  all  her  glories  in  a  ruin  lie. 

Young  Italy  awakes  with  eager  cry  ; 

'Winter  is  gone,  behold  a  brighter  May!' 
The  words,  with  hope  a-tremble,  pass  away, 

Nor  rouse  dead  Ostia  from  her  lethargy. 

She  sleeps  and  dreams  of  splendor  that  is  gone, 
Of  Rome's  imperial  glory,  nor  will  stir 

Nor  put  forth  any  green  for  lesser  things; 
But  at  the  flutter  of  the  waking  dawn, 

When  dreams  come  true,  a  vision  troubleth  her, 

An  eagle,  poised  for  flight,  spreads  forth  his  wings. 


- 


II 

Small  gift  of  beauty  on  that  day 

Of  sunshine  had  the  hand  of  Spring 
O'er  crumbling  Ostia  deigned  to  fling, 

When,  jolting  o'er  the  Roman  way, 

Where  broken  arch  the  highroad  spanned, 
We  passed  the  Chapel  of  Farewell. 
Along  the  wayside,  asphodel 

And  white  narcissus  clothed  the  land. 

Light-hearted  to  the  town  we  rode 

By  wood  and  marsh,  then  clambered  o'er 
Deserted  street  and  broken  floor, 

And  marked  the  course  where  Tiber  flowed. 

And  as  we  tramped,  the  lazy  guide 
Kept  mumbling  in  a  monotone, 
Till  I  grew  weary  of  his  drone, 

And,  half  contemptuous,  turned  aside. 


And  he,  observing,  spoke  again ; 

'Here  died  in  peace  at  Ostia, 

The  noble  lady,  Monica, 
The  mother  of  the  best  of  men.' 

Then  woke  our  hearts  to  greet  the  name, 
As  when  the  wind  in  April  blows 
Dead  leaves  and  the  blue  mayflower  shows ; 

And  as  we  talked  a  vision  came 

Of  Austin,  child  of  many  prayers, 
Till,  in  response  to  my  desire, 
The  flame  of  their  prophetic  fire 

Touched  my  own  spirit  unawares. 

I  saw  them  from  the  window  gaze, 
Sheltered  in  quiet,  where  the  din 
And  shout  of  men  pierced  not  within, 

Upon  the  garden's  ripening  maze. 


I  saw  them,  from  the  world  set  free, 
Gasp  for  the  waters  pure  and  sweet 
That  flow  from  Heaven's  eternal  seat, 

And,  moist  therefrom,  lift  hearts  to  Thee. 

The  hidden  things  they  seemed  to  know 
Of  leaf  and  flower.     Hushed  the  sound 
Of  waters  running  underground 

With  distant  music  sweet  and  low, 

And  hushed  the  sounds  of  earth  and  air, 

While,  wrapped  in  wonderment  of  thought, 
Their  souls  to  God  a  highway  sought 

In  holy  silences  of  prayer. 


Ill 

Think  if  some  Easter,  when  the  full  choir  stood 
To  sing  Te  Deum,  and  the  aisles  replied ; 
Or  on  far  shores,  where  rolls  the  thundering  tide, 

Or  in  the  shadow  of  the  fragrant  wood ; 

Thou  hast  not,  in  the  hand  of  solitude, 

Self-purged,  and  for  a  moment  glorified, 
Rent  wide  the  veil,  and  in  a  flash  descried, 

Nor  darkly  seen,  the  vision  of  the  rood. 

So  in  a  twinkling,  there  in  Ostia, 

Bethel  arose  when  the  swift  vision  came 
Of  Austin's  saintly  mother  Monica, 

Whose  lips  were  kindled  with  the  living  coal, 
Who  lit  her  lamp  with  the  diviner  flame 

And  melted  earth  in  white  fire  of  the  soul. 


— •  .I——- TT»-./ 


As  shades  who  purge  their  fault  through  circles  seven 
Of  woe  and  weeping,  glow  with  sharper  pain 
And  praise  the  burning  waves  that  wash  their  stain, 

When  friends  on  earth  lift  hands  of  prayer  to  Heaven, 

So,  through  the  darkening  cloud  asunder  riven, 
On  eagle's  wing  I  seemed  to  mount  amain, 
For  one  transfigured  moment  seemed  to  gain 

The  flame  for  man's  regeneration  given. 

O  crumbling  town,  thou  art  not  wholly  dead, 

Nor  storms  nor  years  can  make  thy  memory  die. 
Though  glories  proud  of  wood  and  stone  are  fled, 

The  vision  of  thy  dream  is  thine  and  mine ; 
Beneath  the  earth  where  moldering  ruins  lie 

Thou  keepst  aglow  some  spark  of  light  divine. 


235134 


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